Don't say I hate institutionalised religion - rather than saying

Host: The theatre was half-empty, the last light of evening spilling through high windows and dissolving against the red velvet curtains. On stage, an old piano sat alone beneath a single spotlight, its keys yellowed, its silence heavy. Dust motes swirled in the warm glow like tiny ghosts of applause long past.

Jack stood at the edge of the stage, staring out into the dark rows of empty seats. His hands were in his pockets, his shoulders slightly bent — not from weariness, but reflection. Behind him, Jeeny sat at the piano, her fingers brushing the keys as if coaxing a memory from them. A few hesitant notes rose — imperfect, human, but full of heart.

The air trembled with a strange stillness, as if truth itself was rehearsing.

Jeeny: (softly) “Lady Gaga once said, ‘Don’t say I hate institutionalized religion — rather than saying I hate those things, which I do not, what I’m saying is that perhaps there is a way of opening more doors, rather than closing so many.’”

Jack: (smirking) “Trust Gaga to turn theology into performance art.”

Jeeny: “She wasn’t performing, Jack. She was praying — in sequins.”

Jack: “Praying for what? A prettier version of faith?”

Jeeny: “No. For inclusion. For a faith wide enough to hold all the colors of the human heart.”

Jack: “And you think religion can do that?”

Jeeny: “If it remembers what it was made for.”

Host: The piano light gleamed faintly on Jeeny’s face, illuminating her eyes like small, fierce lanterns. Outside, the faint hum of city traffic echoed through the theatre walls — distant, but constant. Jack turned toward her, his shadow stretching long across the stage, like a question made visible.

Jack: “She talks about opening doors. But religion’s built on walls — doctrine, structure, boundaries. That’s its spine.”

Jeeny: “A spine shouldn’t make you rigid, Jack. It’s supposed to help you move.”

Jack: (chuckling) “You always find poetry in places that broke people.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s because broken places let the light in. Faith isn’t meant to be a cage — it’s supposed to be a window.”

Jack: “And what if the window’s stained with centuries of control?”

Jeeny: “Then you clean it. Or you break it, if you must. But you don’t stop looking for the view.”

Host: A soft chord rippled through the air as Jeeny’s fingers pressed the keys again — a melody that sounded half like gospel, half like goodbye. The sound echoed through the empty hall, landing somewhere between grief and grace.

Jack: “You know, I think Gaga was onto something — she never said she rejected religion, just the institution of it.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. She wasn’t burning the church. She was trying to tear down the locks.”

Jack: “And what takes its place once the doors are open?”

Jeeny: “Love. Isn’t that what was supposed to be inside all along?”

Jack: (smiling faintly) “You make it sound easy.”

Jeeny: “It isn’t. But maybe we’ve mistaken worship for obedience. Real faith doesn’t demand uniformity — it invites conversation.”

Host: The light widened slowly, revealing the full stage — the piano, the microphones, the scattered sheet music. Jeeny’s voice carried softly through the room, and Jack’s silence became a kind of accompaniment.

Jack: “You know what’s ironic? People like her get labeled as blasphemous for saying what prophets said centuries ago — that love is bigger than rules.”

Jeeny: “That’s because institutions mistake rebellion for disrespect. But some rebellions are sacred.”

Jack: “Sacred rebellion — sounds like an album title.”

Jeeny: “Or a sermon.”

Jack: “You really believe religion can evolve?”

Jeeny: “It has to. Otherwise, it dies in its own echo chamber. God doesn’t stop speaking — people just stop listening when His voice no longer sounds like their own.”

Host: The piano keys whispered again — Jeeny’s hands moving now with purpose, each note deliberate, bright. The music began to grow, curling upward like smoke, delicate but defiant. Jack walked closer, drawn to the sound as if something ancient in him recognized it.

Jack: “So Gaga’s ‘doors’ — what are they, exactly?”

Jeeny: “Empathy. Art. Freedom. The things religion forgets when it gets too busy guarding its gates.”

Jack: “But without gates, chaos walks in.”

Jeeny: “Good. Chaos is creation’s twin. You can’t have rebirth without rupture.”

Jack: “You make destruction sound divine.”

Jeeny: “It is, when it makes room for compassion.”

Host: The lights above the stage flickered like candle flames, trembling, uncertain. It was as if the theatre itself — this old, weary house of performance and echoes — had become a sanctuary reborn.

Jack: “You know, there’s something beautiful in her phrasing — ‘opening more doors.’ She’s not trying to replace religion, just renovate it.”

Jeeny: “Yes. She’s a believer in expansion — not exclusion. To her, faith should be a galaxy, not a gated garden.”

Jack: “And yet she was branded irreverent.”

Jeeny: “Because she dared to make holiness glamorous. People forget that beauty, art, and love are forms of worship too.”

Jack: (after a pause) “You really think glitter and gospel can coexist?”

Jeeny: “They already do. Every concert’s a congregation. Every voice raised in joy is a hymn. The sacred never left us, Jack — it just changed its costume.”

Host: Jeeny’s laughter broke through the tension, light and contagious, echoing like music through the rafters. Jack couldn’t help but smile — the kind that surrenders, not concedes. The stage light caught both of them in its halo — the cynic and the believer, suddenly indistinguishable.

Jack: “Maybe that’s what she meant — that faith doesn’t need fewer doors. It just needs more people willing to open them.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because divinity isn’t locked behind a single key. It’s scattered in every act of love, every spark of creation.”

Jack: “So maybe holiness isn’t in the institution — it’s in the invitation.”

Jeeny: (smiling softly) “Now you’re preaching.”

Jack: “Don’t tell anyone. I’ve got a reputation to protect.”

Host: The piano stopped. The last note lingered, trembling in the air, then faded into silence. The theatre was quiet again, but not empty — it thrummed with unseen presence, the kind that fills a space when something sacred has just been spoken.

Jeeny closed the piano lid gently, like one closes a book after prayer.

Jeeny: “You see, Jack — Gaga wasn’t rejecting belief. She was rescuing it. She was saying: don’t destroy the temple, just open the doors wider.”

Jack: “And maybe let the music in.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Maybe the divine never asked for silence — only harmony.”

Host: The camera would linger — the two of them framed beneath the soft, amber glow of the theatre’s lights. The curtains swayed faintly in the wind from a cracked backstage door. Beyond it, the night glowed with city lights — wild, alive, infinite.

And as the scene faded, Jeeny’s voice returned — soft, sure, resonant as a melody that never truly ends:

“Faith was never meant to be a locked door, Jack. It was always meant to be a stage — open, lit, and waiting for every kind of soul to sing.”

Host: The light dimmed, leaving behind a faint echo — a piano chord, a heartbeat, and the soft applause of the universe forgiving itself for drawing its circles too small.